Curiouser and curiouser!

Eeee-snip! Eeee-snip!

A small clipping of fine brown hair drifted to the tiled floor, joining its brothers in a pile that had grown rapidly over just a few minutes of Damian sitting in that large, black salon chair. The mirror that he was facing hurt his eyes- it was over decorated with Hollywood style light bulbs around the frame, and a dozen hairstyling tools were lying about the table, reflecting the light- forcing him to squint as he attempted to watch the women with the noisy scissors cut his hair. Though Damian did not feel any emotional attachment to his hair, he did not trust the women, and could not help but feel as though he was being held against his will in that chair. He squirmed; hair had made its way in-between the fabric of his green t-shirt and the freckled skin of his back, and it itched like poison ivy.

“How much longer, mother? I apologize for complaining, but I”- squirm, fidget, squirm - “I don’t enjoy getting my hair trimmed,” Damian spoke, glancing in his mother’s direction for a moment, only to find that she was not standing where she had been just moments before. “Mother?” he called, attempting to speak over the pop music that was being playing in the salon. It was not like his mother to leave him, for even a second, without warning him first. Damian sighed; he had already begun to imagine how long it would take for him to locate his mother in such a large shop – had she paid for his haircut before she’d taken off?

Eeee-snip!

That noisy pair of scissors caught Damian’s attention once more, tearing him from his thoughts. He gazed through the mirror at his reflection; he looked so uncomfortable, and so out of place in that large chair with his hair trimmed above his ears. Damian’s mind was far older than his skin, and sometimes it took a good look in the mirror to remind him how long he had actually been on planet Earth. He was young - very young.

“Excuse me, miss”- Damian ran his eyes across the identification badge that was pinned to the women’s shirt, and without missing a beat, threw her name into his sentence – “Sparrow, you wouldn’t happen to have some sort of lint roller here in the salon, would you?” he asked, desperate to remove those pesky stray hairs from his shirt; they were starting to bite at his neck. “Nope, sorry kid. I’m sure you could find one somewhere around this store though,” she replied, her American accent incredibly strong- in fact, Damian couldn’t help but scrunch up his nose; every word she spoke was harsh, scratching at his ears. “All finished,” Sparrow added, brushing a few strands of Damian’s clipped hair from her blouse.

The young boy sprung joyously from his seat, grateful for his freedom, “Thank you, miss,” he stated politely, turning towards the exit, which would lead him into the heart of the busy shop. He had to return to his mother’s side, but first, he had to find something that would rid him of the hairs that were crawling along his skin.